“That’s a silly kind of reasoning,” Betty said. “There are supposed to be two million people in Los Angeles, and half of them are women, so if there was a sex maniac around, it’s a million to one he wouldn’t pick Helen. Can’t you think of something where the odds wouldn’t be quite so much against you?”
Conway found himself somewhat dizzied by this reasoning, but not Bauer. “Look,” he said. “The odds are ten million to one against your getting struck by lightning, but if you get hit, it don’t matter what the odds are — you’re dead. Right? Right. Well, your sister’s dead.”
“Half-sister,” Betty said. “And that’s just my point. If you find somebody lying down dead after a thunderstorm, you don’t just say they were struck by lightning. Right?” She waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “Right,” she affirmed.
Bauer opened his mouth twice, like a seal coming up for air, but if he planned to say anything, he thought better of it. On the third try he said, “I’ve got to go,” and went for his hat. At the door he turned to Betty.
“Where will you be if I want to get hold of your” he asked.
“I suppose what you mean is if you want to communicate with me,” she said. “And I’ll be right here, naturally.”
Conway’s jaw dropped and the detective’s eyes widened. “Here?” he said.
“After all, the reason I came out was to help Arthur through this awful thing,” she said.
“But you can’t stay here with me,” Conway said.
“Well, we can talk about it later. You’ll let me stay long enough to have a bath and change my clothes, won’t you?”